


Shield Arm

by Ashfell (textbookMobster)



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2 (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Light Angst, ch7 spoilers, morag is a protective puppy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 09:24:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18363185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/textbookMobster/pseuds/Ashfell
Summary: What does it take to be worthy of the Jewel of Mor Ardain?





	Shield Arm

The first time Poppi sees Mòrag and Brighid fight— _truly_ fight—she is struck by their absolute ferocity and mechanical grace. Twin whipswords intercept the downward swing of a rogue Driver’s greatsword, encouraging its momentum to travel further left than the Driver had intended. Mòrag relinquishes her blade to Brighid and continues to unsettle the shorter Ardanian with a series of quick cutting motions, snaking past his defence and forcing his companion Blade to deflect the incoming blow. This is when Brighid strikes, arm wreathed in flames, whipsword snapping at the Driver’s heels, toppling him. 

It’s a risky move, one that opens Brighid’s torso to the side sweep of a newly-formed greatsword still bleeding with ether. But Mòrag is there, intercepting the sword once more, arms bunching at the strain of a direct hit. The Blade lets out a frustrated roar and twists away, free hand reaching for his Driver.

“Poppi!”

Poppi turns away and reaches for the ether thrumming underneath her breastplate, anticipation sharpening her senses. To fight like Mòrag and Brighid—a worthy goal.

She readies her weapon and joins the melee.

* * *

It’s Dromarch who eventually comments.

“Perhaps it is not my place to say, Lady Mòrag, but have you noticed how often you put yourself in danger for the sake of your Blade?”

“You’re right, Dromarch. It isn’t your place,” Mòrag says, much too harsh, much too quickly. Dromarch straightens his spine and meets her gaze, tail curling around his form in polite disapproval. She softens, just a little, and turns away. “Nia does the same for you, you know.”

She’s right of course, but Nia is hardly at the front line while they’re fighting.

* * *

They are fortunate—Mòrag and Brighid. Few Blades have the luxury of a second weapon, and while some are content to stand at the back line, other Blades are more aggressive, dancing just at the edges of battle for a brief taste of combat. Brighid is one such Blade, the independence of her station often forcing Mòrag to concede ground.

They’re a little bit better at it now, stepping in and out of each other’s space, their relentlessness unmatched when it comes to single combat.

“You’re a demon with that Blade,” a Mor Ardain says once after a particularly messy fight, hoping to fill Mòrag’s head with empty compliments.

Brighid answers for the both of them: “How else can the Lady Mòrag appease my thirst for blood?”

Mòrag cracks a small smile, pleased at the older man’s indignant flush over Brighid’s implication. (A mere Special Inquisitor next to the Jewel of Mor Ardain. Humbling, really.)

“Careful with that one, Lady Mòrag; it wouldn’t do to give these Blades _ideas_ ,” he sneers.

“I should hope they get ideas. I happen to like Brighid’s, you see,” Mòrag says, eyes trailing along the length of Brighid’s form.

“You would bend to her will!?”

“For Brighid, I could bend to a lot of things.”

* * *

Despite their combined strength, they are no match against Jin’s frightening speed. 

Mòrag is only grateful that he spares Brighid the brunt of his attack. 

* * *

“Promise me that you would never offer your life in exchange for mine,” Mòrag says into the quiet of night, just hours after Pyra had been taken.

From her side of the bed, Brighid stirs and sits up, her hair brilliant in the darkness. “Don’t ask me for the impossible, Lady Mòrag.”

“You are the Jewel of Mor Ardain.”

“I am hardly ornamental.” When Mòrag chooses not to respond, Brighid returns to her side, her hair dimming. "I do not need your chivalry, Mòrag Ladair."

Mòrag laughs bitterly and presses against her side, lips brushing softly against the nape of her neck. “Sometimes I wonder if you need me at all.”

She feels Mòrag pull away, and hears her step out of their room a moment later. 

_Oh my lady,_ Brighid thinks, reaching for the empty space that Mòrag had left behind. _I can’t imagine a world without you._

* * *

Mòrag begins Rex’s training in earnest, taking advantage of the trip they’ll need to make to get to Temperantia. She occupies his time with katas and footwork, trying to iron out the clumsiness that comes with a still-growing body. An uneasiness has settled on the boy’s thin shoulders, the reality of his shortcomings a stab to his gut. Better to keep his attention towards the future than to the crumbling cliffs of his past. 

She runs him ragged, the shape of her frustration manifesting in the sharpness of her tongue and the heat of her words.

“Something the matter, Flamebringer?” Zeke’s grin is as cocky as ever when he intercepts her on her way down to the mess hall.

“Your company, mostly,” she says, rushing past him. “Your voice is particularly grating today in fact.”

He bares his chest more in a full-bodied laugh. “I can’t say I’m surprised. After all, Pandoria assures me that I am quite the distracting fellow.”

“Unfortunately,” she mutters and sighs when he blocks her path fully. “Zeke.”

“Mòrag,” he counters, matching her exasperated tone. “Trouble in paradise?”

She could have easily pushed her way past him if she really wanted to, but his inviting smile is so bloody genuine that she finds herself succumbing to his . . . charms. She feels the tug of Brighid’s ether-link and squares her shoulders. “We’ve been outmatched, Zeke. The greatest Drivers that Mor Ardain and Tantal have produced, and yet we couldn’t even lift our weapons against a rogue Flesh Eater.”

Zeke waves her concern aside and rolls with his one ‘good’ eye. “ _Please._ The man cheated.”

“Is that right?” They continue down the mess hall together, walking past Dromarch who is engrossed in a new novel, tiny spectacles perched at the edge of his nose.

“He’s got some stupid special powers or something. Honestly, all we need at the end of the day is a bigger ether cannon.”

“Tell that to your father.”

He claps her back lightly and swaggers off. “It’s good to see you smiling again, Mòrag.”

(She frowns extra hard just for that.)

Still, she can’t help but contemplate the real reason behind her restlessness. Pride is part of it, true, but there is also a small but vicious fear buried deep in her heart—the very same fear that makes her itch to return to her brother’s side. Does she have what it takes to protect the people she loves?

She is still encumbered by her thoughts when Brighid settles next to her, the warmth of her presence a welcome distraction.

"Has the food insulted you, Lady Mòrag?"

"It has. Will you defend my honour against such a fiend?"

Brighid presses against her side and spears a meaty carrot, biting into it before Mòrag can change her mind. She’s elegant even in that moment, chewing with one hand hovering close to her mouth. She even makes the food look better than it actually is. “I have bested your foe, Lady Mòrag. Do I deserve a reward?” Brighid teases.

Mòrag doffs off her hat briefly. “I’m all yours.”

* * *

Just after Niall was born, the nature of Mòrag’s training had changed. She was no longer heir to the throne after all; it wouldn’t do to arm her with the tools that could overthrow an Emperor. They exchanged diplomacy for mathematics, philosophy for footwork. When she was old enough to fight under a Knight-master, they sent her to their more remote provinces where she could learn the art of war. (Where she could be met with an accident, if it seemed that she could not be controlled.)

There, she learned to fight as the Emperor’s shield arm, always just a few feet away from her master’s offhand, covering his blind spots as best as she could. They had always intended to keep her at her brother’s side after all: his closest protector.

But the young Emperor had other plans once he had taken the throne. (Once he had seen the way Mòrag looked whenever Brighid left the palace under the banner of war.)

She stands by Brighid’s offhand now, driving away amorphous shadows that seem endless in number. Their link is tenuous with so little ether to feed Brighid’s flames, and yet the Blade persists, protecting Mòrag’s flank in return.

Weariness settles in her bones. When was the last time she had slept properly? 

She stumbles back and twists away from the shadows, giving up space in favour of a little breathing room. Swapping blows is a dance she's familiar with, one that makes her heart beat a frenetic war tattoo, the adrenaline keeping her upright despite her fatigue. But the weight of the last few days has been catching up on her, and this trek towards Addam's final resting place has only made things worse. (She worries for Brighid's safety, but knows better than to speak about it to the group. They're an example after all, of what it means to be stronger together.)

Mòrag doesn't see the downward swing until it's too late, a sword biting into her shoulder. The memory of warm fingers, slick with her blood, reaching for her face and tender violet eyes staring down at her with such sorrow pushes her into action. She follows through on her previous attack, ignoring the flare of pain on her shoulder when she rams into her opponent, stabbing her whipsword into its face. The flare of a shield stops a second blow from landing, tugging at their ether-link and draining it even more. "Save your strength, Brighid!"

"I'm fine!" Brighid insists, pulling her to her feet and sending another wave of flames point-blank towards an approaching shadow. "I will not let them harm you."

"My thoughts exactly," Mòrag murmurs, shooting her Blade an exasperated look.

Brighid whirls to face her and snaps her wrist, fire racing across the length of the whipsword. "My life is yours, Lady Mòrag." 

"Here, here, Brighid. We go together—"

"Then prove it!" She grips Mòrag's shoulder tightly and leans forward. "Prove that we are the pride of the empire. Prove that you are worthy of me." 

Strange. Isn't that what she's been doing this entire time as the shield of Mor Ardain's greatest jewel? 

Time slows as she captures every detail of Brighid’s patrician features, focusing on her fierceness while everything blurs in indistinct figures. _Was_ she worthwhile?

"You’re here, aren’t you?" she says, feeling suddenly bold, wanting to meet Brighid’s fierceness with her own. "Our bond as Driver and Blade is evidence enough, I think."

Her Blade loosens her grip on Mòrag and cups her neck, pressing their foreheads together. "Good answer. _Now_ will you let me fight?"

From the corner of her eye Mòrag sees Nia stumbling in the distance and meets Brighid's gaze briefly, the full strength of those violet eyes rekindling her. "Very well. Shall we dance?"

Brighid pulls away and smiles, eyes closed once more. "Lead the way, Flamebringer."

(It turns out, even Nia doesn't need her help.

Not by a lot anyway.

Maybe they’ll be alright after all.)


End file.
